


Russian Courtship Traditions

by tumtatumtum



Series: Cowboys & Russians [1]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: A/B/O, Alpha!Illya, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Beta!Napoleon, Bottom Napoleon, Dom/sub Undertones, Dominance Displays, Explicit Sexual Content, Illya Suffers The Most, M/M, Mating, Mating Bond, Misunderstandings, Pining, Russian Mating Customs, Sexual Content, Spies & Secret Agents, Top Illya, canonical violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-14
Updated: 2015-09-14
Packaged: 2018-04-20 18:10:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4797311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tumtatumtum/pseuds/tumtatumtum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Illya does not believe in the old courtship traditions.  He does not believe in mates either.  </p><p>OR</p><p>Illya and Napoleon struggle, court each other with misunderstandings, and eventually make it to a bedroom.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Russian Courtship Traditions

**Author's Note:**

> DISCLAIMER:  
> These Russian "customs" are not real, I made them all up!
> 
> Please don't try to seduce your Russian friends with them ;)

When Illya was younger, and his mother was feeling nostalgic, he would hear the story of his father’s courtship to his mother. How he presented her with three presents, and how in acceptance of their mating she gave him his watch, the one Illya wore on his wrist to this day. His mother would swirl her vodka in one of their dirty glasses, and laugh as she remembered:

First, the wooden bird his father had carved her, showing his skill. 

Second, the biggest Pacific Cod she had ever seen, showing he could provide for her. 

His father’s final gift had been the most beautiful teardrop pearl earrings, showing how precious she was to him. They were the last things sold to feed her children, before she started entertaining his father’s “friends”.

Illya does not believe in the old courtship traditions. He does not believe in mates either. 

\----------------------

When Illya is older, he has been made into a soldier. The KGB’s finest, a weapon honed and sharpened to Soviet perfection. Nothing about him is wasteful, no part of him wants more than to provide for his country. He spends his days and nights serving, using his hands to crack bones and steal secrets. When he feels his baser needs start to interfere with his work, he addresses them. 

He will eat only until he is full, never indulging himself to the point of discomfort. There is no excess fat on his body.

He rarely drinks, as it always distracts from the job at hand. When he does indulge, it’s never vodka. 

He fucks when his hand no longer satisfies him, three or four times a year. When he does indulge, it’s never with a prostitute. There are more than enough people taken by the strong, silent type. He doesn’t care if it’s a man or a woman, just so long as they don’t stay afterwards.

He lives the life of a soldier. He does not wish to know any other.

\------------------------

When Illya first encounters the brazen beta that is Napoleon Solo, he is chasing him through the streets of Berlin. He gets his first up-close look at the American agent through the window of a black car, clinging desperately to the trunk. He feels the familiar red mist of anger over his eyes, yet when he meets the American’s gaze he sees Solo is blatantly appraising his form, unruffled, from the backseat. A new, familiar surge of heat goes through Illya, and he wrenches too hard and the trunk comes off.

Furious at himself, he hurls the trunk at the car that is rapidly speeding away. It is not a display of strength for the beta, that would be preposterous. He merely wants the capitalist agent to know what his hands are capable of, what they will do to his flesh when he catches him.

But the American gets away, absconding from Berlin with a dramatic flair and a lovely omega girl in his arms. Illya tells himself his instincts are howling because he wants the little Chop Shop omega, not the beta whose suits cannot successfully hide his strong arms.

Illya would be stronger, but Solo would give him a fight. And he likes his partners strong.

He gets to see just how strong the beta is mere hours later, gets to give in to his instincts to fight, to press his form against Solo’s, even if in violence. He ignores the part of him that howls when he gets Solo in a chokehold on the bathroom floor, asserting his dominance over the wily beta. He barely hears his handler’s words over the voice in his head screaming bitematemineclaimclaimclaim.

The irony of the situation, and that they are now partners, is not lost on him. But Illya is a consummate professional, and he will not be tempted by American decadence in the form of broad shoulders, curly hair and stunning blue eyes.

The café scene brings him to reality. He insults the American, tells him what he should- what he does think of him- and his thieving ways. The beta just smiles, seemingly charmed by his cold disdain. Then Solo flippantly tells him his own life story, voice light and mocking. Illya has heard this tale many times before, has heard his superiors, comrades and fellow trainees attempt to use it against him. He never let them, never let it affect him beyond motivating him to be better. This though…this stings like rejection.

Illya does not take rejection well. He roars and flips over a table, furious at Solo, at their agencies, at himself for- he never instigated anything with the American. All of his behavior can be explained away under the guise of his mission. An outside eye would see none of it as posturing for a mate.

He cannot hide the brief hurt expression that crosses his face as he meets Solo’s gaze. The American seems amused, and why shouldn’t he be? The paradigm of Russian control and efficiency, the Red Peril, reduced to a screaming child with a few words. Illya storms off before he bashes his new partner’s face in.

He does not see the American’s mask come down. He does not see how Napoleon’s eyes track him, gaze wistfully upon him as he angrily marches away.

\--------------------------

Illya works well with the American, despite all odds. Solo is a different kind of agent, but for all his flair and flamboyancy he has a certain amount of panache. He can back up his charm and smooth-talk with action, a quality Illya will always appreciate. 

What he does not appreciate is how he is always aware of Napoleon’s presence in a room. How he yearns to touch the beta, how his fingers itch to grab Solo by the neck and squeeze- sometimes in anger, but mostly out of pure desire to make the beta submit. 

He does not appreciate it in the fashion boutique, where his attentions should be on his beautiful “fiancé” Gaby, but instead watch Solo’s hands as he traces the finest silk.

He does not appreciate it when he loses his father’s watch to the stupid American’s plan. He fantasizes about stripping the Cowboy of his prized suit, seeing him shiver in his naked form as he loses what is dear to him. Watch him cower, vulnerable and aroused, as Illya looms over him.

He does not appreciate it at the Victoria’s party, where he leaves the restroom with his alpha blood singing after a successful fight. His sides up to Gaby, but his eyes bore into Solo’s. In that moment he could swear he saw Solo’s calm demeanor slip, thought he saw the beta’s breath hitch in his throat. Illya ushers Gaby away, but every footstep is difficult as all he wants to do is go back to the side of the racetrack, grab Solo by the neck and make him sink to his knees in the dirt.

He does not appreciate it after he utilizes the KGB “Slap”, his inner alpha demanding that he show off for Solo. He preens, nevertheless, under Napoleon’s approving gaze.

He does appreciate the warmth of Solo’s body against his. He allows himself to fantasize, briefly and for the first time in his life, about possessing something all his own, not shared with his country. Something just for him, something beautiful and feisty that he could press close and hoard all to himself. 

When he returns to Russia, Illya resolves to find a quiet brunette and fuck them through the bed. He knows it will not be satisfying, but he hopes it will be enough.

\---------------------

The mission goes haywire. As Illya runs for his life through a field of the Italian countryside, he only hopes that Solo can escape from Gaby’s betrayal as well. When he learns that his American has been captured, he calmly and methodically works his way through Victoria’s ranks until he has found Solo, being tortured in an electric chair.

His heart stops for a moment, and it is only in that instant that Illya realizes it was beating so rapidly in the first place. As he approaches the Uncle Rudi from behind, he is warmed by Solo’s words,

“I never thought I’d say this, but I am glad to see you.”

“I’m always glad to see you” he mournfully thinks, and resigns himself to his doomed fate. It was over once he ever wanted the American to be his. He wants to be a part of the joyful way Solo goes through life, wants the color Solo brings into the world. He wants to bask in the beauty, the whimsy and the danger that is his Cowboy, wants to ride off into the sunset with him like stereotypical Western movie.

He “accidentally” lets Uncle Rudi fry alive. He may not be able to have Solo, but no one harms his partner. However brief their partnership may be.

On the plane to rescue Gaby, he learns just how fragile their partnership really is when he’s given the inevitable kill order. His heart hardens to coal once more, and he tells himself this is all his fault. He doesn’t believe in mates, and he doesn’t get to want anything for himself. This has been his training. He cannot discard it for an adorable cleft chin and a womanizing American.

(Oh, the women. Illya would have been jealous if Solo smelled of satisfaction the next day, but he only ever smelled of frustration and need. Illya knew exactly how he felt, though he didn’t know why Solo would smell that way after a night with a beautiful lady).

Illya contents himself with saving Solo one last time, acknowledging his ridiculous display of strength for what it is as he throws the motorcycle at Alexander Vinciguerra’s head. He stabs the Italian through the heart, and wishes he had the strength to carve it out of the alpha’s chest and offer it to his Cowboy.

\--------------------

Later, he wants to rip the American’s heart out of chest out in anger. Another mating display, however non-announced, and another rejection. This time he destroys his room in anger. He’s still shaking as he knocks on Solo’s door, and prays desperately that this anger will be enough to let him kill Solo instead of bending him over the bed and forcing his mating mark on him.

Maybe then Solo would have listened to him. It’s a moot point, he thinks vaguely as he spots the tape and goes to pour them a drink. He will kill Solo, and perhaps one day he will be able to wake up not thinking about the American.

“I almost forgot, I got you something.”

Then his father’s watch is tossed casually into his hands. Illya looks up, shocked. He fumbles to clasp it to his wrist, and feels his inner alpha howl. His mate, his cunning beta has accepted him, has given him a present back.

He lunges forward to kiss Solo, his Napoleon, to initiate the completion of their bond. A firm hand stops him, planted on his chest, and Illya glares at Napoleon’s confused expression. He rumbles angrily,

“You gave me present. You have accepted my display, and given me present back.”

“I’m terribly sorry, is that a Russian tradition? I’m a little behind on my primitive culture studies.”

Illya has been shot, and it has hurt less. He feels shattered, and he knows by the time he puts himself together there will be shards permanently buried in his sides. He cannot hide the hurt on his face this time, and he feels his face morph into an expression of grief. A final rejection, and it burns whatever hope he protected for all these years out of him in a fiery instant. He has never felt so cold in his entire life.

But Illya Kuryakin is a professional. He straightens up and turns away from Solo, grunts and nods at the tape.

“What should we do about that, then?”

\-------------------------

Working with Solo is a slow torture. Illya is sure he will descend into madness by the end of it. His partner is a flirt, a rogue and a cheat. He steals, lies and cons his way through their missions with a ridiculous flair. He criticizes Illya’s suits, mocks his accent with surprising accuracy, and treats Gaby like his kid sister.

Every once in awhile he’ll look at Illya gently though, and Illya knows he’s trying to figure out exactly what happened in the hotel room. Illya puts up his walls once more when this happens, because even though he is slowly being brought back to life by Gaby, by U.N.C.L.E., by a handler who cares about them, and even by Solo’s charm, he has not heard a word from his inner alpha since Solo’s last rejection. He wonders if he ever will again, or if Solo has stolen that as well.

It’s no wonder then he doesn’t notice the lack of women (and, on occasion, men) who join Solo late at night after their missions. He has less of an excuse for not noticing Solo and Gaby whispering one morning over breakfast, something about Russia and tradition. But then, Illya doesn’t look at Solo if he can help it. So he misses the calculating glances the American sends his way, until one day Solo is just smiling at him, his real smile, not the smarmy one he uses for marks. Illya doesn’t allow himself to react, just nods back and mutters a good morning.

The cheerful note in the “good morning” he gets back really should have been a red flag. Solo is never chipper before at least 11 o’clock.

\----------------------

They’re in Oslo, investigating ties between a Norwegian bank and drug trafficking. While there they stop in the National Museum. As they wait for the head of the bank to show up for his “date” with Gaby, playing the innocent omega, Illya’s attention wanders to a simple painting in black and white.

It’s entitled “The Kiss” IV by Edward Munch, and Illya feels a pang in his heart as he sees an embrace he desperately wants with Solo, captured in a small wood block for the world to see.

He stares, lost in appreciation and wonder. The artist somehow captured the simple desperation of his longing, and once again he feels mocked. He turns away from the painting abruptly, and he does not notice Solo’s intense gaze upon him.

He ignores Solo as he takes Illya’s vacated position, gazing at the painting with an artist’s eye and appreciation. He focuses instead on the fat banker, whose guards flank his beefy body as he waddles into the room. Gaby bats her eyelashes, and Illya feels a rush of pride at how far his Chop Shop girl has come. She’s a wonderful spy, and would be a perfect partner. Illya wishes he could feel something for someone, but he is afraid Solo has burned that out of him too.

The mission, however, is a complete success. The drugs are confiscated and destroyed, and the team celebrates, then heads back to the hotel to pack to return to London for a brief rest between missions.

As Illya unpacks in his room of their London safe house (he is still unused to having a room) he goes to put away his jacket, turns around and-

There, on the wall, hanging perfectly center above his bed, is The Kiss IV. He stares, shocked. How-

“I’ve never seen you so taken with a piece of art. Of course it would be black and white, but we can work on your appreciation for color.”

Illya whirls around and glares at Solo, leaning against the doorframe of his room. He’s in his socks, sleeves rolled up to show his muscular forearms, and Illya is confused.

“Why, why would you jeopardize mission to steal? Always a thief!”

 

“An idiot with a considerable amount of skill. Do you know how hard it is to steal a prized picture like that and replace it before anyone knows it’s gone?”

 

Illya is shaking with rage.

 

“Skill, bah. You are a fool, and you take risks. Risks that will kill me one day.”

 

Napoleon smiles softly and shakes his head,

 

“Never, Peril. Besides, I thought your room could use some sprucing up.”

 

Illya growls and crosses the room, slamming the door in Napoleon’s face. Through the wood he hears a muffled,

 

“Are you going to keep the painting?”

 

Illya doesn’t answer him, but when Solo goes to collect him for their next mission his eyes sparkle when he sees the wooden block still hung above Illya’s bed.

 

\----------------------

 

In Paris tracking some arms dealers, Illya returns home from a long night of reconnaissance in what had to have been the smelliest sewer in the entire city to find a simple yet beautifully set table. Solo is whistling away at the stove, acting like it’s completely normal to be putting the finishing touches on a grilled steak and potatoes tartin at 2 in the morning.

 

“What are you doing, Cowboy? Where is Gaby?”

 

“She met a rather charming poet at a café. If I had to guess, she’s currently inspiring his next two books.”

 

“What is this, then?”

 

“I was sure you would be hungry after a long night of noting guard positions and shift times. This is a little feast, one of the many ways I provide for you.”

 

Illya ignores the odd inflection in Solo’s words, distracted by the smell of the juices coming from the pan. The steak has his mouth watering, and the potatoes have rosemary and cheese. His stomach rumbles, and he drops his gear and rushes to shower without further complaint or question. When he returns Solo smiles and finishes plating, setting down the first course of truffle and bacon risotto. By the end of the second course of steak and potatoes, Illya is full. But he eats all of Solo’s fruit tarts, and savors every bite.

 

He feels overly full by the end, or “stuffed”, as Solo puts it. He goes to bed as happy as he is capable of being, knowing he will always treasure this night of delicious food and sparkling conversation. 

 

Perhaps he will not go insane. Perhaps he can be Solo’s friend after all.

 

\----------------------

 

“You don’t like cufflinks, do you?” Napoleon asks him one day, about a month later.

 

Illya shakes his head. He goes back to cleaning his gun, a daily practice that is as close to meditation as he gets.

 

“Spend few years cuffed to bed for training, you will hate cufflinks too.”

 

“Tales of your childhood are truly touching. They make me want to bring you hot cocoa and wrap you in a blanket.”

 

“Not if you want to keep your fingers, Cowboy.”

 

“No cufflinks, then…”

 

Illya frowns. His birthday is not approaching.

 

“And you have a watch. Your wrists aren’t delicate either, a bracelet would look ridiculous…”

 

“What do you ramble about, capitalist American?”

 

Solo doesn’t answer right away, eyes focused on Illya’s long fingers stroking his gun, checking the chamber and clicking the safety on and off.

 

“Nothing at all, Peril. I’m off, have a few errands to run. I’ll be back at 1800 for our meeting with Waverly.”

 

“Try not to steal any cufflinks, Cowboy.”

 

“No promises, darling.”

 

Illya growls. He hates it when Solo calls him endearments, because he is so sure he would love it if Solo was his own. Which he never will be. Because they are just friends. Friends and partners. Friends and partners who would die for each other.

 

Illya buries his face in his hands and groans. Then he gets up and grabs his gym clothes, determined to bury his frustrations in a punching bag or two for until 1800.

 

He shows up at 1755, showered and a little satisfied. Any inner peace he could have obtained flies swiftly out of the window when he sees Solo already in the meeting room, beautifully wrapped parcel in front of him. 

 

He has not seen Solo buy a present for a conquest in a long time. He scowls and snaps throughout the meeting, storms out as soon as a weary Waverly dismisses them for a week of hard earned vacation. Illya tears out of headquarters and hails a cab, determined to head to the seediest bar in London and fuck the first thing to give him a second glance.

 

He almost slams the door on Solo’s hand, but the American gracefully slides into the seat next to him and rattles off the drop point to the safe house. Illya growls and Solo arches an unimpressed eyebrow, looking poised and immaculate in his charcoal grey suit and perfectly groomed hair. Illya wants to wreck him, wants to shake him, wants to punch him and kiss him and bite him until Solo can’t do anything but beg.

 

He’s still fuming when they arrive back to their- U.N.C.L.E.’s- apartment. He’s shaking with need by the time they cross the threshold, and Solo sits down on the couch. When Illya doesn’t move, he pats the seat next to him and waits.

 

Illya is struck by the similarities of the last time he was in a room alone with Solo, shaking with rage and lust. He forces himself to calm, remembers the rejections that ruined him. He sits and waits for Solo to reveal himself, as much as Solo ever does.

 

“For you, Peril.”

 

The beautiful box is placed in his lap, and Illya is confused.

 

“Is not my birthday, Cowboy.”

 

“It’s not a birthday gift, Illya. Open it.”

 

Illya does, feels himself open the paper slowly on autopilot. He opens the wooden box beneath, inhaling the scent of cedar, and gasps at what he sees.

 

A Browning High-Power. Single action, semi-automatic holding 13 rounds. It had a gorgeous dark cherry wood handle, sleek and deadly looking. It felt light in Illya’s hand as he held it, and he suspected some sort of new metal alloy was used for the frame. It was the most beautiful gun he’d ever seen.

 

“Your guns are precious to you, Illya. They keep you alive. And you…you are precious to me.”

 

Illya stares at Solo.

 

“I do not comprehend. Why?”

 

Solo smiles ruefully, and Illya sees a look of regret on the American’s face for the first time.

 

“Because I was rusty on my primitive Russian traditions. Which aren’t so primitive, by the way, as much as they are sweet. Not explained very well, perhaps, to half of the would-be participating party, but nonetheless sweet.”

 

Illya feels his heart race once more. He feels his inner alpha stir for the first time in over a year.

 

“I’ve been a fool, Peril. I didn’t know then, I didn’t understand what you felt, and I didn’t really understand how I felt at the time. I’d never wanted anything, anyone as much as I wanted you. I tried to ignore it, as I’ve never wanted to care about someone. But you, Illya…”

 

Illya shivers, hearing his name from Solo’s lips in such a manner. Low, seductive, full or promise and longing. That Solo could want him…

 

“My strong, handsome, proud Russian. I…these are my gifts. I’m yours if you’ll have me, darling.”

 

Illya turns the gun over in his hand, silent. Then he gets up and leaves the room, and Napoleon sags into the couch. He should have known. He’s broken too many hearts, it would be a just punishment if he broke the one heart he wanted beyond repair.

 

“Do not cry, Cowboy. I needed only to grab chain.”

 

Napoleon’s eyes fly open, and through the few tears that had slipped down his cheeks he sees Illya hovering above him. He’s working his father’s watch off his wrist, and maintaining intense eye contact with Napoleon the entire time. He bites the leather off the sides, clips a simple silver chain onto the sides of the watch. By the time he’s done Napoleon is breathing hard, and his eyes flutter closed as Illya drapes the chain tenderly around his neck. The watch falls right under his pecs, and Napoleon chokes on a sob as it comes to rest against him, a solid reminder that he’ll never be alone again.

 

“Beautiful. My precious mate, do you accept gift?”

 

Napoleon nods, grabbing Illya’s hand and pressing his palm to his lips, kissing him with all the earnestness he never gives to anyone else. He hears Illya’s rumble-purr of approval, and he continues to kiss the hand of his Alpha. The kisses turn sloppy though, and soon enough Napoleon begins to lave Illya’s fingers with his tongue, sucking two of them into his mouth and looking up at Illya as he hollows his cheeks. Illya watches him with the same kind of deadly focus he utilizes with a sniper rifle, and Napoleon feels a chill go down his spine.

 

“Eager, Cowboy.”

 

Napoleon feels a hand thread through his hair, and that’s the only warning he gets before he is wrenched off Illya’s fingers and shoved face-first into the tented crotch of Illya’s pants. He moans embarrassingly needy, inhaling the musk of his mate. He mouths at the bulge of the trousers, and tries to breath as Illya humps presses Napoleon face first further his crotch. Napoleon gasps for air and tries to suckle Illya’s cock through his pants, but the alpha keeps circling and thrusting his hips, making Napoleon whine in frustration.

 

“Greedy, not surprised. Come here.”

 

That’s all the warning Napoleon gets before he is hauled to his feet, and God that show of strength REALLY does things for him. He’s in Illya’s arms and being kissed roughly before he knows what’s happening, and oh-

 

The kiss is hot, wet and firm. Napoleon feels heat sear down his spine, his already hard cock leaking from just a kiss. But it’s not just a kiss, it’s a conquering. Illya grasps him by the back of the neck and directs his head just how he wants it, digging his fingers in as he nips at Napoleon’s lips, licks at his tongue and holds him like he’s going to destroy him and cherish him all at once. Napoleon wants to be destroyed, wants to be taken apart and put back together, wants everything from his Russian, his amazing Illya.

 

“Bedroom.” Illya growls, and Napoleon nods and tugs him towards his room. After all, his room has sheets with an amazing thread count, and slick. He gasps as he is bear-hugged from behind, and teeth latch onto his neck in a play-mating display. One arm comes up in the semblance of a chokehold, while the other reaches around to cup his cock. Napoleon keens and arches up, sure he’s going to cream his pants.

 

“March, Cowboy.”

 

It’s the sweetest torture, sliding/humping/wriggling his way towards his bedroom, which feels a lifetime away. By the time they arrive they’re both panting, shirtless and missing belts. The watch sticks to Napoleon’s chest, but he doesn’t care. Illya’s big hand is down his pants, nimble fingers working him as deftly as a gun. Just as he thinks he’s going to ruin his Zegna pants, he’s pushed roughly onto the bed. He hears the sound of a zipper being undone, before Illya says low and quiet,

 

“Strip and present. Give me the slick.”

 

Napoleon scrambles up the bed, opens a drawer on one of the side vanities and tosses it over his shoulder to Illya, who he hears catch it. Then he smirks, looks over his shoulder at his future mate and coyly pulls his pants down, inch by inch. He exposes the low of his back, then the tops of his ass cheeks, round and perky as peaches. He bends and dips his spine, making even the awkward movement of slipping his pants past his well-formed calves seem graceful. Once off he flips around, brazenly spreading his legs. He fold one arm behind his head and winks, then begins to stroke himself with the other.

 

Illya’s face betrays nothing, but the cap explodes off the top of the lube bottle.

 

“Take care, cowboy. I will put you over my knee if you cum on anything but my cock.”

 

“Promises, promises.” Napoleon quips back, but slows his pace.

 

Illya says nothing else, slicks up two of his fingers and strips out of the remainder of his clothing with an efficiency Napoleon has come to find extremely attractive. His cock, also, is attractive, long and not too thick, standing straight and proud amidst a patch of dirty blonde curls. Illya has a sparse amount of blonde chest hair, and he looks like the primal image of an alpha. Napoleon gulps, and feels his hole clench in want.

 

Illya still says nothing, though Napoleon is sure the scent of his own arousal must be overpowering. He prowls over Napoleon on the bed, looms over him and shoves a finger in without so much as a How’s-Your-Mother. Napoleon howls and arches, and Illya simply crooks a finger until he is whimpering and shoving his hips back, wanting to feel the fingertip over his prostate again and again. Illya adds a second, then a third, saying little.

 

“Good, good beta.”

 

“Want more, of course. Greedy slut.”

 

“Going to fuck you so hard, you forget everyone before me.”

 

Napoleon nods fervidly. This is already the best sex he’s ever had, and that gorgeous cock isn’t even in him yet. This is something Illya needs to remedy.

 

Illya lines up quietly, nudging the tip of his cock at Napoleon’s dripping hole as he begins to kiss Napoleon slowly, lovingly. It’s the kind of kiss one usually shares with a longtime lover post-coital, and Napoleon feels himself begin to tear up again.

 

“You’re the best thing I ever stole. My most valued treasure.” He whispers into Illya’s lips, and Illya smiles back,

 

“I love you too, Napoleon.”

 

Then he slides in slowly, and any response Napoleon would have made is lost as he is filled perfectly, agonizing inch by inch. By the time Illya’s length is sheathed inside of him Napoleon feels that he is going out of his mind, whimpering and trying to thrust back, trying to get more. Illya just holds him where he is, steel grip not letting Napoleon move, not letting Napoleon take what he wanted.

 

“I tell you what you get. I fuck you how I fuck you, and you beg and thank me.”

 

“Jesus, yes yes please Mr. Big-Strong Alphaaaaaaaa”

 

Napoleon moans as his eyes roll back into his head, as Illya digs his grip into Napoleon’s hips and he feels bruises start to form. At the same time Illya tilts his hips up, and Napoleon’s prostate is assaulted nearly constantly by Illya’s cock.

 

“Fuck, fuck please Illya, please darling I need you I need you to fuck me, fuck me please my love-”

 

“Perfect, Napoleon. Cum now.”

 

Napoleon wants to laugh, wants to shake his head, say it’s too soon, they haven’t done enough, but then Illya pistons in and out of him, roughly and savagely, stabbing his prostate mercilessly and Napoleon feels his balls seize up, feels his back arch as his neck is thrown back and exposed. Illya licks the side of his neck once, twice, then bites down with no hesitation.

 

Napoleon’s howl is muffled by his own teeth sinking into Illya’s shoulder, claiming the alpha as his own. He feels their mating take, and he comes screaming and untouched between their chests. He hears Illya make a quiet gasp before thrusting so hard the bed frame shakes, stilling above him. His alpha fills him with his seed, and Napoleon preens as much as he can. 

 

He’s bleeding from his neck, his mouth tastes like Illya’s blood and he’s never cum that embarrassingly quickly in his entire life.

 

He’s never felt anywhere near as content as he is in this moment.

 

Then he feels Illya’s knot lock into place, and he groans and unhitches his jaw.

 

“Really Illya, oh fuck right there- give a guy some warning- yes shit shit there ahhhh”

 

Napoleon cums again softly, the intensity of the orgasm shaking his bones. He goes kitten weak after that, lets Illya hum and pet him and lick at his mating mark as he drifts in and out of unconsciousness, only fully waking to pepper Illya’s face with kisses. Finally, Illya’s knot slips out, and the Russian rolls them under the covers and spoons Napoleon, both of them snuggling close and passing out shortly afterwards, but not before promising (in more ways than one) to be there when the other wakes up.

 

As he falls asleep, the beautiful beta in his arms, Illya thinks that perhaps some Russian customs are not so bad.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm taking prompts for Illya/Napoleon right now! Inspired by the movie, stayed up late to finish.
> 
> Follow me on tumblr, http://www.versus21.tumblr.com/


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